


Alterations

by howelleheir



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff without Plot, Gen, M/M, Meet-Cute, No Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 19:19:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11584497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howelleheir/pseuds/howelleheir
Summary: Weyoun seeks out a little fashion advice.





	Alterations

He should be dead.

Defective Vorta  _ must _ die; even as he had attempted to escape the Dominion, some small part of him knew that.

And yet, he lived.

A defective clone with a defective termination implant. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He had come within a hair’s breadth of death, certainly. Had languished, teetering on the precipice, for several weeks in Deep Space Nine’s infirmary. Eventually, though, he had stabilized, had pulled through, had been given quarters and granted asylum, albeit not before a rather unpleasant debriefing. 

His memories were hazy right up until he found himself staring into the mirror at himself, back in his uniform. The first thing that stuck in his mind since activating his implant was that it felt wrong to wear these clothes -- they belonged to his predecessors and to his successor, loyal servants of the Dominion, not traitors and defectors. 

There was a somewhat extensive selection of clothing designs programmed into the replicator, but no matter how long he spent pouring over them, no matter how many outfits he replicated and tried on, he just didn’t know what he was looking at. Eventually, he gave up, putting on his uniform again and venturing out into the corridor. He needed to study what people who chose their own clothing wore -- it was something he’d never paid any particular attention to. 

After a few minutes idly wandering, he found himself on the Promenade. Even discounting the various uniforms and other occupational wear, there was a wide variety of clothing represented -- modest and revealing, structured and flowing, drab and bright -- but the wearers revealed almost nothing to him about how they chose what to wear. 

The problem was too trivial to bother Odo with, but it was tempting.

Instead, he eyed the tailor's shop. It had been shuttered during his predecessors time on the station, but now on occasion he saw it open -- though erratically, likely since its owner was heavily involved with the war effort. Reflexively, his profile popped into Weyoun's mind. 

_ Elim Garak. Cardassian expatriate currently aligned with the Federation. Covert operations expert. Compulsive liar, prone to addiction, craves paternal affection... _

Weyoun laughed to himself. What good would that information do him now? Military intelligence was no longer relevant to him.  _ Nothing _ he had ever known was relevant to him. Even his social graces, the only skill that could help him here, weren't what his predecessors’ had been. 

He took a breath and crossed to the shop’s wide doors.

“Anything I can help you find today?” asked the tailor, not looking up from the gown he was hemming. Then, when he raised his eyes, a note of curiosity bloomed in his voice. “Ah, our Dominion refugee. I knew I'd meet you soon, but I rather thought it would be in my...other capacity. What can I do for you?”

“I'm not sure,” Weyoun admitted, the disarmingly humble smile coming to his face out of sheer habit and muscle memory. “But wearing my uniform feels somewhat inappropriate. I was hoping you could give me some guidance.”

If he hadn't had his predecessors’ keen eye for reading expressions, he would have missed the brief, subtle shift in Garak’s. Just a shadow of vulnerability that, in other circumstances, would have given him a connection to exploit. 

Another useless skill that only prodded him with the memory of what he'd lost.

“Follow me,” said Garak, trading his handheld stitcher for a measuring tape. “And take off that jacket.”

He led Weyoun behind a curtain into a small fitting area and set immediately to measuring. It was a strange experience -- utterly invasive, and yet there was something soothing in the rhythmic gliding of the Cardassian’s fingers over the measuring tape and the way he murmured each measurement under his breath.

“I know this won't be comforting right this moment, but it  _ does _ get easier with time,” Garak said as he looped the tape around Weyoun's neck.

“Pardon me?”

“Being cast out by your own people,” he explained, entering the final measurement onto his padd. “Living among their enemies, being looked on with constant suspicion. No longer having something bigger than yourself to guide you.”

Weyoun contemplated the statement. It was possible the man was projecting -- after all, no one could project like a Cardassian -- but Weyoun didn't think so. He seemed almost uncannily shrewd, moreso even than his profile had indicated. 

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Coffee...?” Weyoun asked blankly. He'd never even heard the word.

 

A little under thirty minutes later, and after sampling nearly every variety available in the replimat, they discovered that Weyoun was extremely fond of a double-strength, dark-roast robusta that Garak recoiled from upon smelling. He was finishing off his third cup before Garak had gotten through half of his own (a more palatable Rigelian blend with a generous amount of cream).

“The temperature on the station,” said Garak, making notes as he spoke. “Is it too hot or too cold?”

Weyoun shrugged. “Neither.”

“Not even on the verge of one or the other?”

“No.”

“What's more important to you, freedom of movement or fashionability?”

“Freedom of movement.”

“And freedom of movement or how you're perceived by others?”

Weyoun hesitated. “How I'm perceived.”

“Say you had a weekend to travel. Where would you go and what would you do?”

Blinking, Weyoun asked, “I'm sorry...what does this have to do with--”

“Well, you wouldn't wear the same outfit to the beach as to a Klingon opera, now would you?”

“I--”

“Let’s simplify the question, shall we? Would you rather visit a museum or take a wilderness hike?”

“Visit a museum,” Weyoun said. He wasn't exactly sure of his answer, since he'd never done either. “Can I ask you a question?”

Garak smiled over the rim of his cup. “Certainly.”

“How do you... _ know _ what looks good and what doesn't?”

“You don't,” he said. “There are thousands of worlds, each with hundreds of cultures, and from them all, infinite modes of dress. The trick is confidence. You can wear anything as long as you can wear it with a straight face. 

“Now,” he continued, setting his empty cup aside, “I think I know what I'm going to make for you, but for the time being, we'll put something together off the rack.”

 

“What do you think?” Garak asked almost before Weyoun had fully emerged from behind the curtain.

He stepped up to the mirror and studied his reflection. A sleek, unlined charcoal grey jacket with a narrow shawl lapel over a moss-green shirt, black close-cut pants and leather shoes with a pointed toe. 

He considered the outfit, turning to each side to look at it.

“I think,” he said, “I can wear it with a straight face.”

“In that case, you can pick up your order next week. Here,” he said, handing Weyoun several heavily-laden bags. “This should be enough to hold you over until then.”

Suddenly, something occurred to him. “Don't I need to pay you?”

Garak raised an eyebrow. “And how are you planning to do that?”

“Oh,” Weyoun said, his heart sinking. It wasn't as if he could ask Garak to bill the Dominion treasury, and the Federation, as generous as it had been with food and shelter, hadn't provided him with any money. He held the bags out to return them.

Laughing, Garak pushed them back. “That won't be necessary,” he said. “Dressing you has been an interesting challenge. I'm happy to do it.”

“I can't thank you enough,” said Weyoun.

He was almost to the door when Garak called out to him again. “Actually,” he said, “there  _ is _ something you could do. Only if you wanted to, of course.”

“Yes?”

“Let's have coffee again tomorrow. I can't help but think that you and I have a lot more we could talk about than your wardrobe. Say, around 1100 hours?”

He nodded. “I'll see you then.”

Although he couldn't quite place why, Weyoun was very much looking forward to it.


End file.
